


Dust

by cable69



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5392049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cable69/pseuds/cable69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a fic about uncanny similarities,<br/>uncomfortable differences,<br/>and the texture of the human mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to ff.net; unedited.
> 
> "A/N: You know, I was gonna write another big fic. It was gonna be awesome. But then I didn’t. This is most of the first of what would have been eight chapters, but I haven’t worked on this since 2009, so yeah."
> 
> This story is incomplete and will remain that way.

Whenever you take a step you are bound to disturb something. You disturb the air as you go forward, you disturb the dust, the ground.  
• Mahatma Gandhi

• • •

Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the starship Enterprise is a Starfleet officer, not a pillow, thank you very much. But the weight of a head on his chest does not bother him unduly as he swims through the last shallow layers of sleep. When he blinks his eyes open, surfacing in the weak morning light, it takes him a moment to register surprise at the black-haired form lying across his bare pectorals. 

“Uh,” says Kirk hesitantly. He definitely recognizes that hair. As he realizes who it is, the surprise starts in waves. He is the captain, and what is going on? He snaps, “Mr. Spock,” and the hair shifts slowly, coming awake. The body’s long fingers open and close automatically on the blue bed sheets, and then suddenly Spock is sitting up, an uncharacteristically wild look in his eyes. 

“Captain!” says Spock, moving quickly away from the bed. He, too, is shirtless, and the green flush across his thin chest accentuates his embarrassment.

Kirk is about to say something to the effect of, “What the hell were you doing in my bed?” when he realizes that it’s not his bed, because his bed doesn’t have blue sheets, and—and there isn’t any sunlight in space.

Spock seems to have hijacked Kirk’s train of thought. “Where are we?” Spock says, staring at the sunbeams filtering through the window, and Kirk is shaken by how small Spock’s voice is.

“I have no idea,” says Kirk wonderingly, looking around.

They are in a small bedroom, eight feet by nine feet, on a queen-sized bed without a headboard. The walls are painted an off-white and the two doors are made of cheap, yellowish wood. The single window through which the puzzling sun shines is plain and rectangular, covered by crooked Venetian shutters. The light that glows between the slats is dusty. The room has a distant quality to it, as if it were only casually lived in. They are in a house, not a home.

Kirk looks down at himself. He is wearing loose, faded pajama pants and no underwear, he can tell. Spock is wearing pajamas of the same style, only his are blue where Kirk’s are yellow. They stare at each other for a long moment.

“We’ve been in stranger situations, Mr. Spock,” Kirk says gently. Even after four years, he cannot be sure of his first officer’s reaction. But Spock does what Kirk expects him to do—simply raises his eyebrow and crosses his arms over his bare chest.

“Logically, the first thing to be done is to discover where we are,” says Spock, glancing around the room again. It is bare, filled only at the corners by an empty laundry hamper, a nightstand with a lamp, and a plain, square dresser. There is a picture on the right wall, near one of the doors, that seems out of place; it is a poster of a cloudy forest, tacked up with mismatched pushpins. 

Spock crosses to the door on the front wall and opens it to find a closet, half-empty of clothing. There are extra wire hangers hanging bleakly on the bar across the top of the alcove.

Spock tries the other door. It opens into a hallway.

Kirk automatically tries to draw his phaser, but simply ends up pawing at his right hip. Spock, who is looking back at him, seems to understand his captain’s feelings. Spock’s hand is clenched at his side.

“We should find weapons before we venture into the rest of the house,” Kirk says, looking for something heavy to wield but seeing nothing. 

“I do not think that is necessary,” Spock says, obviously confident about this, since his eyes are still, not flicking constantly, searching for trouble. “We seem to be in no danger, here.”

“But—why are we here? And where are we?”

“I do not know, Captain.”

Kirk sighs. “At least let me go first,” he says, walking over to Spock. He ignores his discomfort—he hasn’t been this close to Spock’s flesh since the incident on Ekos—and moves ahead of his first officer. He feels better now that he’s between Spock and danger. His natural place is in front of his crew, as their protector.

He rounds the doorframe, keeping against the wall. The hallway is short. The corridor to their left terminates in an open door through which a dingy bathroom is visible. To their right is another closed door, and in front of it, an entryway into a wider room. Kirk signals Spock to stay at his back and creeps forward, palms flat against the wall behind him. In Kirk’s wake, Spock moves like a cat, utterly noiseless. Kirk, too, makes no sound as his naked feet ghost over the rough carpet.

Through the doorway is a dim kitchen, with a view, between low-hanging cabinets, into an unkempt living room. Kirk gives it a once-over—nothing. No inhabitants. He carefully opens the door to his right to reveal a lived-in, comfortable office, half the size of the bedroom and three times as full. Kirk slips inside, Spock following him.

A wide desk dominates one half of the space, a small russet settee the other. In between, facing the door, stands a tall, elegant floor lamp, wrought in gold and clearly well-made. Kirk stares at it for a moment—it is the first work of quality craftsmanship he has seen in this dreary house. The room is warmer for the lamp, which is on, casting a quiet light from under its favrile shade.

It is also his first clue that something is very, very wrong.

“Lightbulb,” he whispers to Spock, pointing at the lamp. Spock nods in agreement, and nudges Kirk towards the desk. An old Apple computer is sitting there, about as large across as both of their heads, but as thick as both of their hands. 

“I would estimate the era to be early 2000s, Captain,” said Spock, crossing to the desk and touching the monstrous computer lightly. “Earth, of course. Apple Computers has not yet made its leap to ultra-slim.”

Kirk has stopped listening—and breathing—because he has seen the collection of pictures on the desk.

“Spock,” he says, clutching Spock’s shoulder. Spock turns from the computer and judging by the sudden stiffness in his triceps, Kirk knows that Spock is seeing this too, that this is not a hallucination.

There are four differently framed pictures lining the top portion of the desk. One is a formal portrait of Sam and Aurelan, Kirk’s brother and sister-in-law, and their three sons. A second is of Winona and George, Kirk’s parents, sitting casually side-by-side on a loveseat in a homey living room. The third is a two-frame panel, displaying both of Kirk’s sets of grandparents. The last picture shocks him more than the other three, if possible. It is clearly a casual shot, a view down a red-checkered picnic table from a lower perspective at a high F-stop. In it, Hikaru Sulu is standing at the end of the table in a bright pink apron, scowling and brandishing a pair of metal tongs that clutch a burnt hot dog. Pavel Chekov, closest to him, has raised his eyebrows into his long bangs and is attempting to appear innocent of some misdeed. Nyota Uhura and Montgomery Scott are seated on the other side of the table from Chekov, holding each other mid-laugh. Leonard McCoy is knocking back a bottle of Coors Light, eyes closed, and Spock is staring at the cellular telephone he is holding in his hand, ignoring everybody else.

Kirk thinks he knows who it was that took that last picture, even though he has never been on Earth with these six members of his bridge crew before. He swallows loudly in the silence.

“Captain,” says Spock, his voice strained. “It is imperative that we find out what is occurring.”

“I agree, Spock,” says Kirk hollowly. “You look around outside. I’ll see if I can figure out who… who owns this house.” As if I don’t already know, he thinks.

Spock nods shortly and leaves the room as if he were never there. Kirk surveys the rest of the desk. It is untidy, but in an unorganized way, not a messy one. There is a pile of mail hanging off of the right corner, near the computer with its ancient keyboard and mouse. Kirk picks up the top letter. The return address is listed as Harlen County Water Supply, 54 Finfeather Rd, Chestnut, TX 73409. And the recipient is listed as James Kirk, 1701 Enterprise Dr, Chestnut, TX 73409.

Kirk drops the letter.

He’d suspected as soon as he’d seen the pictures, but—but for it to be real… God, what does this mean? he asks himself. Surely it’s all an illusion: some bored, powerful alien species has created an early 2000s-era home and installed him and Spock in it, and all they have to do is talk to the aliens, or break out of the dream, or—or do whatever it is he always manages to do to get himself, his crew, and his Enterprise out of trouble.

But the mail—it seems like an almost cruelly accurate touch, as do the pictures. These aliens are really trying, he thinks; they want to make it seem like I actually live here.

He opens a few drawers. Evidently the aliens see him as very messy (he’s starting to realize that the aliens don’t know him that well; if he had a house, it wouldn’t be this dingy), because the drawers are full of random things, stamps and staplers and packets of cigarettes (why? He doesn’t smoke) and old sticks of gum. He extracts a small, well-worn black book that has the word “Addresses” stamped into the front of it. He flips through it, smiling slightly. Evidently the aliens got something right about his personality. There are quite a few names in the book, most with strange little marks next to them that have an obviously sexual connotation. Then he frowns, noticing that some of those names are male. God, how did the aliens know that? Spock and McCoy, his best friends, don’t know that he is occasionally attracted to men. He has a hard time admitting the fact to himself, and the aliens just throw it in so casually, as if his sexual preferences are an open book for anyone to read…

He feels sick. He is about to close the book when, in the B section, a name stands out. All it says is “BONES 622-1239.”

Kirk stares at it. Obviously. If McCoy is in that picture, he must have a doppelgänger in this world. Kirk looks around for a telephone and finds it hidden under a stack of magazines. He takes a moment to figure out how to work the contraption before carefully dialing all seven numbers. He waits as it rings, speaker to his ear—how archaic. Finally, there is a beep, and a gruff, wary voice says, “Hello?”

“Dr. McCoy?” says Kirk cautiously.

“Captain? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” says Kirk, relieved that it’s his McCoy and not some era-appropriate duplicate. “Where are you?”

“Some house,” McCoy growls, and Kirk hears the sound of a door slamming in the background. “It’s about to rain. Where are we? Or when are we? This seems like the late twentieth century.”

“Spock says early twenty-first,” Kirk says. “Listen, the house you’re in—is it a little… strange?”

“What d’you mean?”

Kirk doesn’t know how to phrase this. He scratches his head, holding the phone closer. “Well, Spock and I woke up in a house that’s pretty obviously mine. I mean, there are pictures of my parents and grandparents and brother’s family.” He does not mention the fourth photograph; he is not sure what to make of it yet.

“The house I’m in… it feels like my house, but there’s somethin’ off about it. What do you think’s goin’ on, Jim?”

“I haven’t talked it over with Spock yet, but I’m pretty sure this is all an illusion,” says Kirk. “A powerful illusion, possibly created by aliens with powers unknown to us. There’s no other explanation.”

“And that sure isn’t much of one. But if it’s the best you’ve got… How about I try to figure out where our houses are in relation to each other and meet you over there? I found a local map and an address book. Evidently we’re in Chestnut, Texas.”

“That’s what I’ve discovered. Good plan, Bones. Do you have this telephone number?”

“Yeah, it showed up on my screen when you called me. Good luck.”

“You too.”

Kirk lowers the phone and finds the End button. Spock chooses that moment to reenter the room.

“I have scouted the area around the house and found nothing but woods, fields, and nearby dwellings,” says Spock, attempting to sound as normal as possible even though he is still shirtless. “There is a motor vehicle located outside that we could use to explore the area further.”

Kirk laughs at the resigned expression on Spock’s face. “Memories from Sigma Iota II back in full force, Mr. Spock?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” says Spock, and Kirk can almost see him trying not to roll his eyes.

“I made contact with Dr. McCoy,” says Kirk. “He said he would meet us here, at my house. You can try driving around, if you’d like—”

“Captain, I am an even worse driver than you,” says Spock, clearly leaving off the if that is possible. “It will take Dr. McCoy at least thirty minutes to locate and arrive at this house, should he actually be able to do so—which I doubt. But, as I live in hope, I plan on returning here before that time has passed.”

Kirk grins, reassured by Spock’s attitude. “That’s more like it, Mr. Spock. Alright. Let’s see where we are, then, after we find some proper clothes.”

As they search the closet for fitting attire, Kirk tells Spock about the letter and the address book (just that he had found McCoy’s telephone number in it, not—not anything else). At one point, their hands close on the same shirt, and Spock moves his hand away quickly, as if Kirk’s claim on the thing makes it electric. The sudden movement surprises Kirk, and he can’t help but glance at Spock, who is not looking at him. Then Kirk realizes what he is doing and turns back to the clothes, dragging his gaze away. They dress, facing away from each other, trying to be quiet, as if that will make everything less awkward, even though it is making things more awkward.

Kirk is confused. He has been half-naked in front of Spock before. In fact, the way his uniform shirts tear, it is a wonder he is fully clothed so often. On Ekos, Spock actually climbed on top of him while they were in a similar state of undress to reach a light fixture, and they joked about it then (or, Kirk joked at Spock, and Spock responded with neutral amusement). Why is he acting so strangely now? Kirk wonders, and suddenly becomes afraid that Spock somehow knows about him being… bisexual (he can barely think the word; he’s always been ashamed of his attraction). He tries to convince himself that this fear is unreasonable, but he can do little to quash it.

As soon as he is dressed (in a gold button-down shirt, gray slacks, and very strange black shoes evidently called “deck shoes,” according to Spock, who is of course somehow an expert on obscure early 21st century footwear), he feels much better. He waggles his eyebrows at Spock, who looks both stoic and exasperated, as per usual. Spock is wearing a blue button-down shirt, black slacks, and black “Oxfords,” ostensibly another type of shoe. Spock’s clothes do not fit as well as Kirk’s, which makes sense, because this is Kirk’s house, sort of. Kirk wonders for a moment why Spock did not get his own house, but does not dwell on the question.

Kirk decides to call McCoy before they leave. 

“Hello?”

“Bones? It’s Jim. How’s the search going?”

“I can tell you anythin’ you’d like about this town we’re in.”

“Chestnut, right?”

“Yup. It’s about forty miles west of Timber, twenty-five miles east of Gilly. Population nine thousand. Evidently I’m the town doctor.”

“We’ve got professions?”

“I don’t know about you, but I certainly do. Thank God it’s Saturday, or I’d have to be at work.”

“Is it? How do you know what day it is?”

“My computer’s tellin’ me. I could barely figure out how to work the thing. It has a mouse, for the love of God.”

“Do you have a car?”

“Yup. Ford pickup. Looks a hell of a lot like the one I’ve got back on Earth. Jim, this is weird.”

“I know, Bones. We’re trying to figure out what’s going on.” He pauses as something occurs to him. “Do me a favor—in that address book of yours, see if anybody else is familiar. Maybe Scotty is here, or Sulu—our Scotty and Sulu, not… not their doubles.”

“I’ll look and give ‘em a call if they are,” says McCoy.

“Spock and I are going to drive around the town. Come over as soon as you can so we can work on this together.”

“Alright. Bye, Jim.”

Spock, incongruously, has been watching him talk to McCoy instead of prowling around the house, but since Spock does not comment on this, Kirk does not either. They walk outside, Spock leading since he has been out here before. The exterior of the house looks much better than the interior. There are carefully tended flowerbeds under the windows and even a small herb garden underneath the spigot. The silver car parked under a shiny new carport at the house’s right side is a bit battered, but quite upper middle class, down to the brushed paneling and wrinkled leather seats. There is a parking pass hanging from the rear view mirror. Kirk gets into the car and removes it: the pass reads, Chestnut High School Faculty Parking Pass: 1.

“I’m a teacher?” says Kirk skeptically.

Spock shrugs. He has settled himself uneasily in the passenger’s seat. Kirk grins at him, lifting the keys out of the cup holder. “This one’s an automatic, Spock. It should be easier to drive.”

“I certainly hope so,” Spock murmurs, buckling his seatbelt with a resonant click.

Kirk takes a moment to start the thing (Spock flinching and shuddering every time Kirk does something wrong; That man has got to be more positive, Kirk thinks) and backs jerkily out of the driveway.

The trees are unnaturally thick around Kirk’s house, they see as they drive into town. They are directed, at nearly every intersection, by small green signs that point the way towards Chestnut proper. Kirk does not live far from the city center. Chestnut is a windblown, open place. There are pavers in the streets and only a few stoplights on the too-wide roads. The stores are built low, one and two stories, mainly with red and brown brick or whitewashed cinderblocks. It is early Saturday morning and the air is quiet. They encounter few other cars, and the people they see in shops, vehicles, and on the sidewalks are somehow indistinct, many of them merely hunched shoulders and the fluffy tops of heads. 

Kirk gets the hang of the car faster than he expects. Spock is still twitching whenever Kirk has to turn or brake or speed up, which is sort of funny, but Kirk is not in the mood for laughing. There is something very sad about this place. No, sad is not right—depressing. Dull. Desolate, that is it. There is an inordinate amount of dust on the streets and buildings, and the sky is much wider than it ought to be, like it is a vast blue eye crying pathetic little clouds of sand onto the town.

“I don’t know why, but I don’t like this place,” says Kirk.

Spock does not reply, and Kirk thinks Spock does not approve of this emotional judgment, but when he glances at Spock’s face, he realizes that Spock might be thinking the same thing he is.

They pass what must be McCoy’s office—it’s small, with a little plaque out front that says, Dr. Leonard H. McCoy, M.D., clinic hours 8 am—6 pm weekdays, call 911 for emergencies. There’s a mechanic’s shop nearby, across from a nice-looking bar called Shaw’s and a grocery store, Kathleen’s. The road they are on, Oak Street, is the main drag. The city hall is small but impressive, a Cretaceous limestone building located on its own block in the center of town. 

They have decided to go back to the house when Spock says hoarsely, “Captain—stop.”

Kirk hits the brakes and pulls over, ignoring an angry honk from a Chevy behind him. Spock is staring out of his window. Kirk leans around him.

“Oh,” says Kirk, unsure how to react. “Well, I guess we know what you do, now.”

They are halted in front of a small office with a sign over the door that says, Spock and Chapel, Attorneys at Law.

“Fascinating,” says Spock, dry-mouthed.

“You would be a lawyer,” says Kirk. “You and Nurse Chapel would probably scare the shit out of judges. Let’s go home, okay?”

“That house is not home,” says Spock sharply.

“I know, but what am I supposed to call it?”

“Your ‘false residence’ would be appropriate, I believe,” says Spock.

“Fine. Let’s go back to my false residence,” snaps Kirk, not sure why he is so offended. The rest of the drive is spent in silence.

Kirk turns off the car just as a pickup pulls up to the curb. McCoy, dressed in a flannel shirt, dusty blue jeans, and actual cowboy boots, slides easily out of his Ford.

“Captain,” he says, a wide grin on his face despite the situation. “Nice town. My kinda place.”

“It’s depressing as fuck, Bones.”

McCoy shrugs. “I like it. The dust is nice—like fog.”

Spock is positively emitting scorn. “If the two of you are finished setting the tone?” he says tartly. 

McCoy shoots Spock a Look, but otherwise ignores him. “Jim, I called everybody in my book that I recognized, and four of ‘em turned out to be—well, like us, I guess. Lieutenant Commander Scott, Lieutenants Sulu and Uhura, and Ensign Chekov are jus’ as puzzled about this place as we are. I told ’em to stay put; figured we could call ‘em back once we’d come up with a plan.” He holds up a largish brown rectangle. “I brought my address book along.”

“The object is not yours,” says Spock irritably. “This place is no more home to our beds or our possessions as is a hotel room.”

“Well, excuse me! I’m not the one gettin’ all worked up over semantics—”

“Gentlemen,” says Kirk calmly. “Shall we go inside and discuss the situation?”

Spock and McCoy eye each other before stalking through the front door, one after the other. Kirk sighs and follows them. 

“Nice place,” says McCoy skeptically, dropping into a folding chair at the vinyl card table that evidently constitutes Kirk’s dining room set. “You lookin’ to sell? I know some people who love fix-me-ups.”

“The aliens seem to think I’m a slob,” Kirk explains. Spock has seated himself primly in another folding chair, so Kirk sits too. “Mr. Spock? What is your analysis of the situation?”

Spock takes a breath and begins. “We appear to be in an entirely realistic early twenty-first century town in the United States of America. We have professions, houses of our own, and friends, if I do not misinterpret the photograph in the office. I hypothesize that we have been placed here by a race of creatures with interest in psychological research. However, I have seen no evidence that this place is not real—not a construction by the aliens—leading me to the conclusion that they are either more powerful than we have the capability to measure or they have placed us into an alternate universe with preconstructed identities. It is also possible that there is no driving force behind our appearance here, and that we have simply entered into this alternate universe as a matter of galactic chance.”

Kirk and McCoy blink at him. 

“There’s no way to get out of this?” says Kirk slowly.

“Not that occurs to me currently,” says Spock indifferently.

“What about time travel?” says McCoy abruptly. They stare at him. Abashed, McCoy explains, “I know, I’m not generally interested in flingin’ the ship around the sun or whatever it is we do n’order to run around durin’ different eras, but if it’ll get us home…”

Spock contemplates. “I could theoretically construct a device that would allow me to observe future-tense temporal patterns and analyze their indicators,” he says.

“I’m a doctor, not a—”

“… a device that would allow me to see the future, doctor,” says Spock patiently, as if he is speaking to a small child. McCoy, completing the image, pouts at him.

Kirk, though, frowns. “What if we’re on the leading edge of time?”

“What if we’re what?” says McCoy.

“According to temporal mechanics—” Spock starts.

“Er, I’ll explain,” Kirk interrupts apologetically. “You’ll just hurt his brain, Spock. Bones, from what we know about time travel, it’s not possible to travel into the future if you’re at the leading edge of time. See, time isn’t laid out—there really is a past, a present, and a future. Hypothetically. Since our time period has had visitors from the future, then we must not be at the leading edge of time. But, we theorize that the leading edge of time does exist. At the leading edge, we are unable to accurately predict the future. In the past, we are also unable to accurately predict the future, because one of the natural laws of the universe has to do with people not knowing their fates, but that’s beyond the point. The difference is, at the leading edge, there is no future: no ‘future-tense temporal patterns,’ as Mr. Spock so ingeniously calls them, while in the past, we can see future-tense temporal patterns, but are unable to accurately interpret them.”

McCoy stares at him.

“Did that make any sense?”

“Well, yeah, but—Spock? You can actually build a machine that can see into the future?”

“Theoretically.”

“Okay… but—”

There is sudden noise and McCoy jumps, his hand going to his hip. He extracts a small clamshell cell phone from his pocket and stares at it as it rings.

“Answer it,” urges Kirk.

McCoy flips it open and holds the thing to his ear. “Hello?” he says guardedly. A faint female voice buzzes from the speaker and McCoy’s eyebrows shoot into his hair. “Oh, uh, you are? … I’m—I’m at Jim’s… I’m not sure… Okay, I will… I love you too. Bye.” He lowers the cell phone slowly and closes it. 

“Who was that?” Kirk demands.

“Joanna,” says McCoy, white as a sheet. “My daughter,” he adds to Spock, who looks puzzled.

“Your daughter?” says Kirk, watching McCoy closely. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

McCoy shrugs in an attempt at being casual. “Yeah, me neither. Guess I shoulda looked at all the rooms in my house. I was wonderin’ why there was so much food in the refrigerator I didn’t like.” He slips the cell phone back into his pocket. “She said she was comin’ back from Jocelyn’s,” he adds, seemingly offhand.

Even Spock knows about Jocelyn. He and Kirk trade looks.

“Do you need to leave?” Kirk asks carefully. Spock opens his mouth, and Kirk knows it is to say something along the lines of, She’s not really your daughter. Kirk cannot let him say that and kicks his shin softly under the table. Spock jumps a little, but McCoy does not see. He is too busy staring at the ground.

“No, she—she’s sixteen, I can tell. The same age she is back home. She can take care of herself. She said so.”

“Okay,” says Kirk, thinking it’s best to deal with the situation at hand now and McCoy’s mental state later. “Listen, I’m going to go get everybody. We could use extra minds on this. Bones, you stay here and bother Spock.”

“Captain,” says Spock sharply, “how are you going to locate—”

McCoy holds up four sheets of paper.

“I’m not too shabby at workin’ old technology,” says McCoy, not even trying to keep the pride out of his voice. “I believe they called it ‘MapQuest.’”

“Good job, Bones,” says Kirk, snatching the papers and staring at them. “Excellent. I can follow these.”

“I made them as simple as possible,” says McCoy innocently. Kirk glares at him and McCoy grins back.

“I’ll be back soon,” says Kirk. “You two… don’t kill each other.”

McCoy’s expression says, I can’t promise that. Spock’s expression says nothing at all.

Kirk drives. The ground flows past like a flood. That is the nature of this place, he thinks; I can tell already. It invokes the stream-like movement of starships through space, even though the waters are gone from its sun-dried earth. 

Scotty’s house is flat and wide, near the middle of town. Kirk can see a large garage at the back filled with cars and trucks and other vehicles. Scotty trundles out of the low front door, his strapping form ungainly in a collared shirt and slacks. He has a tie draped around his neck and runs his hand through his short, thick brown hair. He grins at Kirk as he sits in the car, eyes flashing.

“Ah cannae figure out how t’ tie this thing,” Scotty says, waving the ends of the tie around. “But, ‘tis nae important. How are we doin’ on gettin’ home?”

“First, we’ve got to figure out where we are,” says Kirk. “I’ll explain it all at once, when we’re back. How is your… house?”

“Nearly perfect,” says Scotty, buckling his seatbelt and twisting uncomfortably in his seat. “Scarily so. Ah own a mechanic’s shop an’ a used-car lot. I’m a handy businessman, if ah do say so myself. Make a tidy sum, it seems.”

Uhura’s house is nicer than he expected it to be. It is beige stucco with columns supporting the awning and spiky green ferns framing the modern door. It is on the eastern edge of town, in a nice neighborhood. Uhura exits her house wearing a plain-looking blouse and skirt. Her hair is down, and it looks strange out of its normal, teased state. She seems atypically unobtrusive; generally her aura is exotic, but here, she has become bland.

“Captain,” says Uhura formally, seating herself carefully in the back. Kirk watches as she steals a long glance at Scotty to make sure he is unharmed, and as Scotty restrains himself from doing the same. Kirk has not really noticed, before this, how close the two were; he wonders if they are together. The thought makes him feel empty.

“Lieutenant,” he acknowledges as he pulls away. “Have you done much research on your current… persona?”

“I have,” she says, making direct eye contact with Kirk in the rear view mirror. “Nyota Uhura is the station manager at the regional radio station. The call sign might interest you—it is ‘KNCC.’ The last three letters are undoubtedly significant, but I am not sure in what way. I doubt that those letters stand for ‘Naval Construction Contract,’ however.”

Sulu’s house is even more impressive than Uhura’s. Built with stoic, formal white brick, round windows, and tasteful landscaping, it is in the bluest, most expensive neighborhood in Chestnut, where the yards overflow with thick grass grown with expensive water. Sulu has put quite a bit of effort into his image. He is immaculate in ironed, steel-gray slacks and a wine-colored collared shirt. There is a messenger bag draped over his shoulder. It has always been an unspoken assumption amongst the crew that Sulu is homosexual, and his appearance now reinforces the belief.

“Hello, Captain, Lieutenant Commander, Lieutenant,” says Sulu mildly to each of them as he buckles himself into the middle seat in the back. “How are we doing?”

“Quite well, considering,” says Kirk as he pulls away. “What have you found out about yourself?”

“I am the director of the Harlen County Arboretum and an avid airplane enthusiast in my spare time,” says Sulu proudly. “I am a well-respected member of Chestnut society.”

“Some things never change, I suppose,” says Kirk wryly. Sulu was certainly popular back on the Enterprise.

“Indeed,” Sulu laughs. He and Uhura smile at each other; they have always been good friends. Scotty watches them indulgently, clearly unthreatened by Sulu.

Chekov lives in a small, brown apartment in what is quite obviously the bad part of town. He flies down the steps, looking worried and tired, and hurries into the car, greeting everybody quickly. He is dressed casually, in blue jeans and a t-shirt. Kirk thinks he seems particularly young out of uniform. The kid is just now twenty-one, and even though he has proven himself time and time again on missions and on the bridge, his youth leaps out at Kirk sometimes.

“Ensign Chekov, how are your living arrangements?” Kirk asks.

“Less zan ideal, sir,” says Chekov, brushing his long hair out of his eyes. Sulu glances at this action, holding Chekov’s hand with his gaze. “I seem to be a graduate student in physics at Astra College, which is ewidently in Gilly, a city nearby.” He makes a face. “My roommates are unpleasant. I do not enjoy zeir company.”

Sulu looks concerned for Chekov’s sake, but Chekov does not acknowledge this. Kirk had certainly noticed their dynamic before, although he doesn’t know if they are together; he can never tell, with Chekov, if the kid is innocent or merely a good actor. Plus, Chekov has always seemed pretty straight, but hell, if he, Kirk, is not straight, who is?

It occurs to him that they have each discovered who they are—what they do—except for Kirk, who does not know what subject he teaches at the local high school. He was a tactics, command, and history instructor at the Academy before starting his service on the USS Farragut. Perhaps, he thinks, he teaches history in this world too. It makes more sense than math or English or even P.E.

For the first time he wonders what they—Scotty, Uhura, Sulu, and Chekov—will think when they see his house. Before, he has not really been concerned by what the aliens thought of them, by what jobs and personalities the aliens constructed on their behalf. But now, after seeing that everybody but Chekov has a much nicer house than he does, he is worried. Perhaps the aliens were right about him. Maybe, no matter where he lives, he will never feel like he is home.

The thought has worried him before, but now, faced with something straight out of his subconscious, the fear shoves itself to the forefront of his mind. It is a dark, consuming thought. Kirk does not fear death, nor pain, nor destruction: he knows that he is strong enough to resist what tries to kill him or rip him apart. But this is different. This place seems like a manifestation of everything that truly scares him. There is evidence out there of his sexuality, and he does not know when or if his crew will encounter it. There is the chance that he will never get to see his Enterprise again, the closest thing he has to a lover. There is also the beginning of the day, when he awoke next to Spock—and he is just now admitting this to himself—but for a moment, he had thought all of it was his dream made real. Because no matter where he is, if Spock is with him—really with him, not just as his first officer—Kirk knows that he will be fine.

The thought should not reassure him, but it does. He drives faster, missing Spock, and when they arrive at his house, Kirk rushes inside, not even watching people’s expressions as they take in their surroundings. He sits down next to Spock, who, with McCoy, has arranged seven chairs around the table. The others take their places. Kirk brushes close to Spock to feel the weight of sanity again.

Spock explains the situation, although he knows as much as they do. He tells them that is entirely possible to build the theoretical device he needs to see—or not see, as the case may be—into the future. He enlists Scotty and Chekov’s help, and they go off into a corner to do science-y things. Sulu, meanwhile, brings up something pretty important.

“How should we treat this place?” he asks, leaning seriously across the table.

Uhura looks confused, but both Kirk and McCoy know what he’s talking about. 

McCoy glances at Kirk. “We haven’t discussed that,” McCoy says. Kirk rubs his chin. 

“I think,” Kirk says slowly, “that we should treat this place like home.”

Sulu is skeptical. “Why?” he says dismissively. “We have no proof that this world is real, not a construct of some sort.”

“But we have no proof that it is not real,” says Kirk firmly. “What if we have somehow found ourselves in a place that other people, like ourselves, inhabited until we arrived? We should treat their world with respect.” Something occurred to him, suddenly. “What if we switched places with these second selves, and they are on the Enterprise right now?”

“Like what happened in the mirror universe?” says Uhura, wide-eyed. “Captain, if that is the case, they could be handling the running of the Enterprise as we speak, if we are to assume that they look and act as we do.”

“They will not be exactly like we are,” says Kirk. He takes a breath and continues, “Look around this house, Lieutenant. Do you think the James Kirk who lives here is at all like I am? This place is no home, but simply a house; we are by no means the same person.” It feels untrue to say this, because even though the surface of his thoughts believes it, his subconscious is, quite horribly, protesting this misinterpretation of his interior self. 

“I see what you mean, Captain,” says Uhura, stealing another glance around the room.

“There is a problem,” Kirk acknowledges to the group. “Since we’ll be going about our, er, regular routine—the regular routine expected of us in this universe, I’m sure Mr. Spock would like me to say—we will have to do jobs that we know little about and socialize with people that we do not remember. We should avoid, at all costs, to reveal ourselves as extraterrestrials… as it were.”

“Maybe I’m not the brightest, but there seems to be a little problem with that idea,” says McCoy in a low voice. “Spock.”

Kirk is puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“The hobgoblin’s got pointed ears,” says McCoy slowly, drawing out the last phrase as if what he is saying is obvious; which, really, it is. “I’m gonna go out on a long damn limb and assume that this early 2000s Earth is the same as our early 2000s Earth. There weren’t any Vulcans in this time period, Jim.”

Kirk considers cursing. Why has this not occurred to him?

“This complicates our hypotheses, it would seem,” says Sulu thoughtfully. “Surely any sociological or psychological experiment would have taken into account species differences and… compensated accordingly. Perhaps the people of this world will simply not notice Spock’s Vulcan features.”

“But it’d be a bad idea to test that theory,” says McCoy. “What if it’s not somethin’ ‘compensated’ for, and then we’ve got some human runnin’ around talkin’ about Spock’s strange new ears and eyebrows?”

“The eyebrows are relatively easy to deal with,” says Kirk. “A razor and some makeup should do the trick. The ears, though, are significantly harder to hide.” He sighs. “Perhaps we will cross that bridge when we come to it. I, for one, am afraid of mentioning this to Spock.” He shares a knowing smile with McCoy. “As I was saying, on Monday morning, we will all be going to work.”

“And school,” Sulu points out for Chekov.

“And school,” Kirk includes graciously. “If nothing else, this incident will be a fascinating look at early 21st century culture. We should take notes.”

“You sound like Marla McGivers used to,” says McCoy grumpily. “‘Fascinating’ my ass. You weren’t in my medical history class. They cut people up in this era, you know. Doctors’r still usin’ stitches and antibiotics, for Christ’s sake, and there’s even animal experimentation.”

“We’ll just have to avoid injury, then,” says Kirk lightly as Uhura shudders. “We have Sunday to prepare for our jobs. Spock will—”

The doorbell rings.

Spock, with Scotty and Chekov, turn to stare at Kirk, whose eyes are fixed on the door. Uhura lets out a quiet noise like a whimper. The atmosphere has gone from determined to jaggedly on edge.

“Mr. Spock, remove yourself to another room or find a hat,” says Kirk, standing. “Everybody else… act natural.”

There are quiet murmurs of, “Yes, sir,” and Spock slips out of the kitchen. Kirk feels open and unprotected without him there, but presses the feeling back. He crosses to the door and wishes the aliens had thought to give his house a peephole. He takes a deep breath, assumes that whatever is on the other side of the door will not hurt him, and opens it.

Standing on his ragged welcome mat is a teenaged girl with long, curly brown hair and ice-blue eyes. She is wearing a purple tank top and cutoff blue jean shorts with more attitude than Kirk generally sees reflected in a human stance. There is a pink-and-black messenger bag draped between her ample breasts. Her face is heavily made up, but underneath it, she looks like a younger, feminine version of McCoy.

“Hey, Mr. Kirk,” the girl—who is clearly Joanna—says, sounding bored. “Dad said he was here. Can I come in, or what?”

“Um,” says Kirk. “Yes, of course.” He steps out of the doorway and Joanna walks inside.

“Hey dad,” she calls, pulling her bag over her head and dropping it on the threadbare couch before even looking around the room. “Oh, hey guys,” she says, perking up noticeably when she sees Uhura, Chekov, Sulu, and Scotty. “I didn’t know all of y’all were here. Where’s Shen?”

The question is directed at the room at large, which makes the silence that follows it even larger: nobody can answer the question, since they have no idea who Shen is.

“Uh, nobody jump to answer,” Joanna says. “You guys okay?”

“We’re fine, Jo,” says McCoy, almost automatically. There is a frantic look in his eyes, but his voice is steady. “How was Jocelyn’s?”

“Not bad,” says Joanna slowly. “Seriously, what’s up? Where’s Shen?”

“I’m not sure,” says McCoy.

There is a long silence.

“There’s something wrong,” says Joanna jerkily. She had taken a few steps into the room, but has now retreated to the couch. Kirk is blocking the door, trying not to seem intimidating but not wanting her to leave, either. “What’s is it? You guys, what happened?”

“Nothin’ happened, Jo,” says McCoy, obviously keeping himself from getting up and going over to Joanna. “We just—we were just talkin’, before you came in.”

“No, I’m sure you were,” says Joanna, more raw than ever. “But dad, you—” She stops, evidently unsure of what to say. “I don’t know. You don’t seem right.”

McCoy opens and closes his mouth once before Spock re-enters the room clad in a nondescript beanie. He glances at Joanna and takes a seat at the card table as casually as Kirk has ever seen him do anything.

“Greetings,” he says to Joanna once he is seated.

“Hey,” she says, sounding almost relieved. “I know you’re incapable of lying. What’s going on with these guys?”

“Nothing untoward that I am aware of,” says Spock.

“Okay, I know you have issues with facial expressions, but come on, the tension is palpable,” Joanna says. “You could cut it with a knife.”

“Excuse me?” says Spock, frowning.

“It’s a figure of speech,” Joanna explains with a strange ease and willingness. “Sometimes, people get really stiff and awkward around each other, and in books, if things are really wrought, the author says, ‘the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife.’ Weird that you haven’t heard that one.”

“I have ‘heard that one,’” says Spock. “I see. I did not, as you said, sense the tension in the room.”

“Well, it’s there, so what’s up with it?”

“I am not sure,” says Spock. “Forgive me for being of little help.”

“It’s cool,” says Joanna. She seems much less worried, though Kirk is not sure why—nothing has really changed, except that she spoke with Spock. She turns a frown on McCoy. “You really won’t tell me what’s up, dad?”

“If anythin’ was up, I might not tell you about it anyway,” says McCoy.

Joanna wrinkles her nose at him. “Fine. Whatever. I’m just here to hang out and do homework, anyway. You mind, Mr. Kirk?” she asks Kirk.

“Not at all,” says Kirk, sweeping his arm casually around the living room. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“Gracias,” says Joanna, and tosses herself onto the couch. “Ignore me,” she tells everyone, fluttering a limp wrist over the top of the cushions.

“We will,” McCoy assures her in his most measured tone, while staring in terror at the back of her head.

Kirk is nonplussed for a moment, as is everybody else. Then he says to the room, “People, I found a book I thought you might like—it’s in my office. Come see?” He starts towards the back hallway.

“You’re not subtle, Mr. Kirk,” Joanna sings over the couch.

“I try my best,” replies Kirk, grabbing McCoy and lifting his still form bodily from the chair. “Go,” he hisses at everybody else.

They all hurry into the office, Kirk dragging the paralyzed McCoy. It’s cramped, but nobody seems to mind; they are all too stiff with something strangely like fear to be concerned about personal space.

“I am so sorry,” McCoy says immediately, still wide-eyed. “I had no idea she was gonna show up. God, Jim, what am I supposed to do? She’s exactly the same!”

“That sounds like a good thing,” says Kirk soothingly. “It means you can deal with her without her suspecting anything.”

“She already suspects somethin’!” protests McCoy. “She’s a smart kid; she should suspect somethin’!”

“I fail to understand the urgency of the issue at hand,” says Spock, a frown wrinkling his brow. “I personally am working under the assumption that if we continue to act as we are, our presence will be undetectable to the population of this world. Our previous selves, as it were, must have been significantly similar to our present selves. I gathered that Mr. Scott found his dwelling and employment much to his liking, and Dr. McCoy seems to enjoy this place’s romanticized nature.”

McCoy rolls his eyes.

“Just because I like the country doesn’t mean people’ll take me seriously as a twenty-first century doctor. If I have to go in to work in the morning, I’ll be gapin’ all over townspeople who know my name, rank, and serial number when I don’t know a hint of theirs.”

“You could just ask,” says Joanna’s voice from the door.

Everybody whirls around almost comically. Joanna is watching them—mostly McCoy—with an absolutely blank expression.

“I’m not sure who you are,” she says, looking McCoy in the eye, “but I know you’re my dad, and if you need any help, I can give it.”

There is another long silence.

“Why are you convinced that he is your father?” Spock asks.

Joanna frowns. “He seems like him,” she says uncertainly. “Really, I’m not that convinced, but I am interested.”

“You are reacting remarkably well.”

“How else am I supposed to react?” Joanna demands. “And since when—” She stops. “Really—what’s going on?”

Kirk lets out a long breath. “Shall we?” he says to Spock.

“I do not see the disadvantage of bringing Ms. McCoy up to speed,” says Spock. “I would recommend returning to the living area.”

They file dutifully back into the kitchen. Joanna hops up on the formica counter, near McCoy’s chair. He is watching her out of the corner of his eye, and she is ignoring him.

As everybody is sitting down, Scotty looks at Joanna and asks, “What year is this, lass?”

Joanna’s eyes widen. “2006,” she says. She frowns and adds a belated, “B.C. Why?”

“Because where we come from, it is 2270,” Kirk says. 

Joanna’s jaw is hanging low on her chest. “You’re from the future?” she says with marked incredulity. “Then how is he my dad?” She nods at McCoy, who glares at her.

“I’ll always be your father, don’t think you can escape me,” growls McCoy.

“That right there, the threat,” says Joanna indignantly to Kirk. “One of the reasons this is definitely dad.”

“We do not come from the future, exactly,” says Spock. “We come from another universe. If you could help us understand exactly what shall be expected of us at our places of employment, we would be appreciative.”

“Wait,” Joanna says firmly, throwing a flat palm towards Spock. “First, tell me more about what’s going on.”

They explain things as best they can. Joanna is fascinated to hear about her dimensional twin, and delighted when McCoy tells her that they are nearly the same person. She is just as confused as they are about why they are here. The questions she asks are mostly mysterious. She seems amazed that they have come from a spacecraft, that there is a Federation, and that there are other planets.

Her strongest reaction occurs when Spock, clearly tired of giving information rather than receiving it, says, “Ms. McCoy, would you please tell me what you know of a certain ‘Chapel,’ who I assume is my partner in law?”

“Sure. She’s in love with you,” Joanna says blithely.

There is yet another extended silence at this. Scotty and Sulu look like they are about to laugh. Kirk grins, noting the parallels in their universes.

Spock looks taken aback. “That—that was not precisely the information I requested,” he says.

“Did you date Nyota?” Joanna asks curiously.

Uhura sits up in her chair, and Scotty’s face goes still. Spock’s eyebrows knit slightly. “Excuse me?” he says. “I have not entered into a formal relationship with any crewmember on board the Enterprise.”

Sulu coughs quietly. Spock does not blink.

“You dated her in this world,” Joanna says. “For two and a half years.”

Spock turns to Uhura, who sees Spock as if she were staring down the barrel of a gun.

“You don’t know what your connection is, do you?” Joanna asks the room slowly. “Back in your universe, you’re the—command people, or something. Right?”

“We are the primary bridge crew,” says Spock, almost stiffly.

“Sure. That. Here, think about everything in terms of this universe,” says Joanna. “What reason do any of you have to know Pavel? He’s a college student, and the rest of you are professionals. Nyota, you rarely cross paths with Mr. Kirk; I mean, you’re a radio station manager and he works at a high school. And Hikaru, you’re one of the richest guys in town. Why are you such good friends with the local used car salesman?”

“I have the feeling you are going to tell us,” says Kirk dryly.


End file.
